‘Stay a moment,’ said Cestus soothingly, ‘the danger is great; but yet I have hope. I have not told you that the maid has caught the eye of a youth, and they are betrothed. I had a suspicion that something ill was brewing to the girl, and they will bear witness that I did my utmost to persuade them to come to Rome at once, where she might be in safety; but they flatly refused to move until the potter came back from the island. He never did come back, but in his place came the slaves, who tore the girl away. But soon after they had gone, arrived the youth who has fallen in love with her. He is a centurion, and was posting from Rome to the island with despatches, and him I told who she was, and bade him warn Caesar not to harm her—I said I would go straight and bring you, and now the matter rests with yourself.’ ‘And the name of the youth you say is betrothed to her?’ ‘He is a centurion of the Pretorian Guard, and his name is Martialis.’ ‘What?’ shouted Fabricius, ‘am I living in a dream the gods have woven round me? Martialis, did you say—Lucius Martialis, a Pretorian—tall above the common?’ ‘The same—he seemed to know you when I spoke your name, and said you had lost a child.’ ‘Oh, wonder of heaven—the man of all I would have chosen—the son of my old playmate! Alas, alas, the more you say, the more unhappy and hopeless the case! Do you not know that the young man has been flung into a dungeon, awaiting perhaps his death?’ ‘By Pluto, no—how could I?’ cried Cestus, aghast. ‘It is here, in a letter received this morning from my nephew,’ replied Fabricius, taking an epistle from a drawer and glancing down its contents. ‘Listen!’ —‘By the way, the Centurion Martialis, for whom you took such a sudden fancy, has fallen into disgrace and one of the palace dungeons, for bearding Caesar in his own hall, in pursuit of a wench, a sweetheart of his, who had been brought off to the island, I believe, by force. Of course it means death in some shape or other.’ The face of Cestus grew dark and sullen as a thundercloud, and he folded his arms across his chest without a word. ‘What is to be done?’ said Fabricius, the extremity of distress breaking down the repugnance and indignation with which he regarded his companion. ‘The luck seems against us,’ answered the Suburan bitterly; ‘he must have played the rash fool. At any rate, your letter shows that I am to be believed when I make you a statement. All we can do is to get there as fast as we can and make the best of a bad job. In whatever plight the girl may be, I can prove who she is, and you can have your fling at your dutiful nephew.’ ‘A poor consolation,’ muttered Fabricius; ‘but I cannot rest until I fathom this strange story; were it for nothing but the sake of this unfortunate Martialis I would seek admittance to Caesar, who is not unknown to me personally. We will start before dawn—you will remain here in the house until then.’